Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
This is book 3 of a three book series, “The Brother Disciples.” This is part 2, of the third, and final book. This is a standalone. No cliffhangers.
After the untimely death of his mother, Caspian Emory did not utter a word for a long time. Raised by his adoring Aunt Angel, he often got in trouble and exhibited antisocial behaviors. Despite his inability to display emotion, Caspian was broken when his beloved teacher, Mrs. Florence, passed away. She’d given him a sense of belonging when he’d always been the outsider. A fish out of water who only connected with two other people who became brothers to him: Axel and Legend.
Now a successful reporter and writer, specializing in unsolved cold cases, he lives a good life filled with women, swanky parties, and southern country club livin’. However, all of that changes once he receives word that his beloved Aunt Angel has passed on. He’s asked by her only child, his cousin Noah, to come and help sort things out. Back in Portland, Kentucky, the doors to Hell and Heaven burst wide open. What was supposed to be the planning of a funeral is only the beginning of death, straggly loose ends tinged in blood, and fluttering white feathers of the past, present, and future. The last thing on Caspian’s mind is meeting an illustrious, talented and magnetic woman by the name of Azure, who makes him anything but blue…
Come along on a journey of twists of turns, hot passionate love, and deadly mysteries uncloaked, if you dare.
Speak now, or forever hold your peace…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter Fourteen
Caspian had scheduled his usual video call with his therapist. Seated in his car, he listened to her speaking amongst the loud, rattly sounds of the airplanes while stationed in the open parking garage. The shadows of the huge machines cast across the roads and land ahead before disappearing out of sight. When he was younger, he used to wonder what kind of people would be on the planes, and where they were going. He also wanted to go away with them.
“Caspian, so how do you feel about that?” Dr. Moore questioned, jerking him out of his deliberations.
He swallowed and closed his eyes, mentally and physically exhausted. He’d just come back from a four-day trip to Georgia to handle a few work-related matters and was now at the Kentucky Louisville International Airport in a new rental, ready to head to Portland. However, he’d had a scheduled video call with his therapist and missing it would perhaps cause her concern. So here he was, in the middle of his session.
“How do I feel about what?” he finally responded, only half there. Half present. Halfhearted.
“About having to return? Is that worrying to you?” Dr. Moore asked.
His therapist’s dark brown wavy, shoulder length hair was tucked behind her ears as she smiled gently at him with her thin, pink glossy lips.
He shrugged, cracking his window to allow the cigar smoke to escape.
“It could be.”
“Based on what you said earlier today, Caspian, I think that you returning to the place you’ve been avoiding for so long, with the exception of the short trips you’ve taken over the years, is proof of healing.”
“I just need to help my uncle and cousin.”
“You could have done the majority of those tasks remotely. It’s the land. You want your feet on it.” She cocked her head ever so slightly to the side, then froze. The FaceTime reception was acting up within the thick concrete walls of the airport. The pixelated form of her, like an abstract cubic painting, was a tad comical—her mouth hung open, the lips swirled about, and one eye appeared completely shut, while the other was blurred and oversized.
“You’re frozen.”
She responded, but her speech was broken up. He looked at the time.
“Dr. Moore, if you can hear me, we only have four minutes left. Maybe we should wrap this up.” He flicked his cigar out of the car and rolled the window up. Once again, her voice was all choppy.
“Caspian!” Her voice rang like an alarm, the sound piercing the air. He sighed in resignation when the call didn’t drop.
“Yes?”
“I’m concerned about your lack of interest in talking about your feelings regarding the passing of your aunt. You’ve been sweeping over it. She was the woman who raised you. You called her mama. You’re burying your emotions again.”
“She’s dead. I’m sad about that, but life goes on. I still have to take care of life and work. My cousin needs me, and I—”
“Caspian…”
“What do you want me to do here, huh? Cry? I already did. I’m past it now.”
“Caspian, must I remind you about your diagnosis?”
“No. You must not.” The woman laughed at that. “I would rather just be called a sociopath or psychopath.”
“Why’s that?”
“Most think I’m that anyway. They say it jokingly but I know deep down, when I let folks get close to me, they start seein’ some things about me that make them uneasy. They never seem to put their finger on it but since I’m a likable kind of guy, they roll with it. Dismiss it. Being a psychopath or sociopath is a lot easier to explain.”
“Well, that may be true, to some extent, but I don’t believe you are either of those, neither do you. Some would argue you do have a bit of psychopathy, but I disagree. You’ve been such an enigma, but I’m fairly confident you have borderline personality disorder and that’s what we’re trying to treat you for—without the use of antidepressants and antipsychotics, of course. The reason you were such a conundrum to me and my colleagues is because you’re high functioning and do not typically swing the opposite way, as far as your emotions. You do not visibly showcase major shifts in mood, such as fits of public rage or anger. Instead, you do it behind closed doors, or only with those you trust. You’re not comfortable with public spectacles. The misdiagnosis you received previously, as schizoid personality disorder, doesn’t apply because you are—”
“I don’t necessarily always want to be alone. I do have interest in other people. I enjoy intimacy, I care about a few select folks, but I just want any company and interactions I have to be—”
“…on your terms.”
“Yes. I don’t appreciate being forced to do anything…”
“I realized your prior diagnosis of SPD, by the other team, was inaccurate fairly early on. I want to clarify that yes, you’re puzzling, but you’ve baffled me, in a good way, Caspian. You’re a challenging case because you do possess the hereditary factors and markers to warrant such a study. Your mother being allegedly diagnosed as suffering from depression, and definitely the traumatic events of your life factor into this, too. Yet, you’ve managed to maintain control, at least outwardly. That’s why my diagnosis was challenged, but I stand firm by it. Of course, this is an ongoing observation. It can change.”